Page 43 of The Beta Test

My face scrunches up before I can stop it. Jake… at my meets? That’s a lot of Jake. But also—annoyingly—he’d probably make it fun. And if I hated it, I could always ignore him. We’ll likely only have around 4 or 5 home meets. That’s not so bad. I can live with that. But I need it to be a little more fun for me.

“I have one edit to your proposal.”

He flicks his hand like a king granting an audience. “Proceed.”

“I get to make the shirt you wear, and you have to wear the one I make.”

His expression goes cautious. “It has to have your name on it, and it can’t say anything insulting about me. And no drawings or doodles.”

“Excuse you,” I say, affronted. “My drawings are art.”

“They’re crimes,” he says, deadpan. “Just—your name, school colors. Normal.”

“Is glitter ok?”

He exhales like he’s bracing for impact. “Sparingly.”

“Deal,” I say grandly. “My name. School colors. Minimal glitter. No slander against your spotless character.”

We shake hands like we signed an international treaty.

At home, Tim the Beaver gets placed next to my vision board. He looks perpetually startled, which feels appropriate given the current state of my life. He’s adorable and I love him, though.

Jake was annoying about our game in the way he's always annoying—grinning, telling me I have "a ruthless streak that's honestly terrifying"—but he wasn't a sore loser. He handed Tim over like it was a privilege, not a defeat. Then we got fried dough and he let me eat most of it.

For a long moment, I just stand there looking at the board. All my neat little plans, still pinned in place. Next week is Thanksgiving, which means Braden and my family and a whole mess of things I can't control no matter how many stickers I use.

I straighten one crooked sticky note, then walk away before I start overthinking again.

Chapter Seventeen

“Avery, can you carry the potatoes to the table? Hunter, can you grab the napkins and silverware?”

Mom wipes her hands on her apron and picks up the turkey with oven mitts, carrying it to the dining room table with a sense of urgency, even though there are a grand total of three of us in attendance for this year’s Thanksgiving dinner.

“Sure, Mom. Everything smells amazing, by the way!” The pep in my voice feels forced, but I keep my smile pinned in place. Hunter has already cried multiple times in the past week over our dad staying in Australia instead of being home for the holiday weekend like he originally said he would. And even though our mom has been carrying on like normal, I can see the stress lining her eyes and weighing her down.

As I set down the potatoes on the floral tablecloth and take my seat, I can’t help but resent my father a little. Up until the past couple of years, I would have considered myself very close to him, closer than I was with my mom. While my mom finished her residency and started her medical career, my dad had been my primary caregiver for years. Instead of Mom being at every school event and award ceremony, it had always been him. After Hunter started full-time school, everything seemed to change. With his schedule more free, he’d taken on more and more film projects. Then came the bickering and fighting between my parents. Then, he decided to start taking jobs overseas.

I reach over and ruffle Hunter’s hair good-naturedly as he places a napkin and silverware at my spot. “Give me a couple extra napkins, bud. I plan to hit this dinner hard.”

Hunter gives me a small smile and drops two more napkins next to me. “Are you sure you don’t need a bib?”

I place my hand on my chest dramatically while my jaw drops. “Hunter James! A bib? What am I, a toddler? Next you’ll be suggesting a sippy cup.”

He shrugs nonchalantly as he sits and scootches in his chair, but the grin he's fighting gives him away. “I think we still have some old ones in the cabinet. I can grab you one.”

Before I can respond, Mom eases into her chair and sighs heavily. Her gaze turns to each of us and she smiles, but I can see the sadness lying beneath it all. She’s been wearing the same invisible weight for weeks. I can't help but remember the night before Dad called to tell us he wasn't coming home. Mom's voice behind her bedroom door—whispered but harsh, the kind of whisper that isn't really trying to be quiet.

“Well, I for one cannot believe it’s already Thanksgiving! What a year. Should we go around and say what we’re thankful for? I’ll go first. I’m thankful for my two wonderful children,” she pauses while she gives us each a teasing cheek pinch, “and for getting Thanksgiving off from work this year.” After finishing, she glances at Hunter, encouraging him to share next.

Hunter’s brows furrow for a moment. “What about Dad? Aren’t you thankful for Dad? You didn’t mention him.”

My heart pinches and I glance at Mom quickly, noting the way her cheeks flush with emotion and her gaze drops to the tablecloth. Hunter’s only eight and I know he can feel some tension in the house regarding our dad, but there’s no way to explain the nuances of a strained marriage, nor is this the time and place. So I jump in and do what I’m good at: I distract.

“Hunter’s thankful for the vegemite Dad promised to bring home from Australia.”

He reacts exactly the way I expect. His face contorts in confusion and then he makes a “blech” expression. “No way! I thought it was chocolate flavored until we watched that YouTube video about it. It looks and sounds so gross!”